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If I ever got famous for writing something, itâ€™d be a translation of the feeling of pronoia turning into paranoia, or vice versa. Itâ€™s this feeling thatâ€™s likeâ€¦ always hanging out on the outskirts of my mind, bumming cigarettes and busking out there, you know? And sometimes it gets up the money to go into the city of my mind and it performs there in the comedy clubs, and the people, they just eat that shit up, and itâ€™s a good time until everyone gets sick of him and they throw him back outta town. And this feeling is always the same, paranoia or pronoia, but itâ€™s awful, it grips my whole body and thereâ€™s this feeling, like I just know all these problems Iâ€™m having arenâ€™t real, but theyâ€™re there and these delusions Iâ€™m having arenâ€™t real and I know they arenâ€™t real but boy oh boy am I going to have to have to learn to live with the fact that while they were happening they were real, they were real to me and I have to live with the fact that I had these ideas. Sometimes while in the grips of these feelings that haunt me, they change. I go from imagining all this horrible shit, that every single fucking blade of grass is staring at me in their own right, and it changes, it goes from the grass eyeing me nervously, waiting for me to pull a fucking knife, to loving me, and the grass is still there and itâ€™s staring but now theyâ€™re hiding rainbows and unicorns, they love me, these blades of grass, and they want me to be happy, and all this bubbly fucking nonsense boils over and Iâ€™m filled with joy so sweet it hurts, it makes me sick, and now even Iâ€™m vomiting rainbows. Weâ€™re all vomiting rainbows together, and it is, in fact, together that we will go down in history as happy people that everything went right for. It sucks. It sucks and I feel sick.

If I ever got famous for writing something, itâ€™d be a translation of the feeling of pronoia turning into paranoia, or vice versa. Itâ€™s this feeling thatâ€™s likeâ€¦ always hanging out on the outskirts of my mind, bumming cigarettes and busking out there, you know? And sometimes it gets up the money to go into the city of my mind and it performs there in the comedy clubs, and the people, they just eat that shit up, and itâ€™s a good time until everyone gets sick of him and they throw him back outta town. And this feeling is always the same, paranoia or pronoia, but itâ€™s awful, it grips my whole body and thereâ€™s this feeling, like I just know all these problems Iâ€™m having arenâ€™t real, but theyâ€™re there and these delusions Iâ€™m having arenâ€™t real and I know they arenâ€™t real but boy oh boy am I going to have to have to learn to live with the fact that while they were happening they were real, they were real to me and I have to live with the fact that I had these ideas. Sometimes while in the grips of these feelings that haunt me, they change. I go from imagining all this horrible shit, that every single fucking blade of grass is staring at me in their own right, and it changes, it goes from the grass eyeing me nervously, waiting for me to pull a fucking knife, to loving me, and the grass is still there and itâ€™s staring but now theyâ€™re hiding rainbows and unicorns, they love me, these blades of grass, and they want me to be happy, and all this bubbly fucking nonsense boils over and Iâ€™m filled with joy so sweet it hurts, it makes me sick, and now even Iâ€™m vomiting rainbows. Weâ€™re all vomiting rainbows together, and it is, in fact, together that we will go down in history as happy people that everything went right for. It sucks. It sucks and I feel sick.